The next day, in this case, was the day of the World Series Championship.
If Carter pitched just two more times today, he wouldn’t be allowed to pitch in the game tomorrow. If he came out of today’s game right now, however, he could take the mound for at least some of that title match. Of course, to even play in that game at all, Mid-Atlantic had to win this game.
Coach Harrison tapped his clipboard thoughtfully. Carter knew he was weighing whether to keep him in or take him out.
Liam must have known it, too, because he sat down next to Carter and whispered, “Man, I hope you stay in, because you’re pitching great! And you’ll still get in the game in some other position tomorrow.”
After a long moment, Coach Harrison made his decision. “You’re on the mound again next inning, Carter. Now get going, Liam. You’re up first!”
As Liam shoved a helmet onto his head, he leaned in and whispered to Carter, “You-know-who is still in, too, don’t forget.”
Carter glanced at the mound. Sure enough, Phillip DiMaggio was there.
Liam grinned at Carter and then headed to the plate. His easy, rolling gait made him appear as if he were out to enjoy a Sunday stroll rather than face a steely-eyed pitcher. He hadn’t had his growth spurt yet, so he was a little on the short side. There was a hint of pudge to him, too. But crammed into that small, squat package was a very efficient hitter who had taken more than one pitcher by surprise.
“I imagine I’m a spring, wound tight and ready to go,” he’d once told Carter. “Hit the release button and wham! I uncoil and hit that pill out of the park!”
Carter had tried visualizing the same thing, but it just didn’t work for him the way it did for Liam. He watched his cousin with envy, wishing he could collect hits like Liam did.
And Liam did get a hit—almost. Phillip unleashed a sizzling fastball. Liam connected, sending the sweet sound of bat meeting ball ricocheting around the stadium. But that sound was followed immediately by another.
Thud!
With catlike reflexes, Phillip DiMaggio had leaped off the mound, stuck out his glove, and caught the line drive!
CHAPTER
SIX
Liam was stunned when he saw the ball sticking out of DiMaggio’s glove. “I’m—out?” he sputtered. “Unbelievable!”
“Believe it!” the catcher said gleefully. “DiMaggio’s the best of the West and all of the rest!”
Still dazed, Liam trotted back to the dugout. Carter started to say something, but Liam waved him off. “No comment,” he muttered.
Outfielder Charlie Murray was up next. He hit a rolling grounder between short and third that should have been an easy out. But the shortstop bobbled the pickup, giving fleet-footed Charlie just enough time to land on base.
Now it was Carter’s turn to hit. Liam studied his cousin as he walked to the right side of the plate. Carter was tall and lean, just the right build for a pitcher—and just the kind of build Liam wished he himself had. Somehow, it didn’t seem fair that Carter, who was two months younger, had a three-inch height advantage.
Genetics in action, he thought ruefully. Carter’s father stood at six feet, two inches. He was a lefty, too, like Carter. Since his own dad was only five foot ten, Liam figured he had as much chance of reaching six feet as he did of growing wings. Nothing I can do about it, so I might as well learn to live with it!
He turned his attention back to the field in time to see DiMaggio release the ball.
“Too high,” Liam muttered, willing Carter to let it go by.
Carter did. He let the next two go as well. He took a cut at the fourth, but missed.
Three balls, one strike. The next pitch came in at eye level, way above the strike zone.
“Ball! Take your base!” the umpire called.
Carter tossed his bat aside and jogged to first. Charlie moved from first to second. Liam cheered along with his teammates and the fans, although something about the last pitch bothered him.
He tried to figure out what it was as Ted Sandler, Mid-Atlantic’s second baseman, readied himself in the batter’s box. Ted was a good fielder, but statistically not very strong at the plate. It was when Ted fouled a pitch down the first-base line that Liam decided DiMaggio must know that.
He walked Carter on purpose, figuring there’s a good chance that Ted will hit an easy grounder or a pop-up. Then they can go for a double play!
Ted started to go for the second pitch, only to check his swing. Unfortunately, he didn’t stop in time.
“Strike two!” the umpire called.
Ted backed out of the batter’s box and fussed with his helmet. It was a delay tactic, pure and simple. The grin on Phillip’s face indicated he’d guessed why Ted had done it.
Ted has to swing and he’s worried. If DiMaggio’s studied Ted’s stats, then he knows Ted doesn’t hit well in a pressure situation. He’s already thrown two fastballs. I bet he’s going to throw a changeup now.
That was exactly the pitch DiMaggio threw. Ted connected, but misjudged the deceptive pitch. Instead of flying high and far, the ball dribbled to the left of the mound. The shortstop ran in, scooped it up, and tossed it to third. Charlie was out. The third baseman quickly relayed the ball to second. For a moment, Liam thought Carter was safe, but then the umpire jerked his thumb and cried, “Yer out!”
Double play. The inning was over.
The teams switched sides. Liam tugged his mask into position and hustled to the plate. While he waited for Carter to reach the mound, he glanced over toward the West dugout. Phillip, the West’s leadoff batter for this inning, was taking a few practice cuts. It was the first chance Liam had had to really study his swing. He narrowed his eyes, trying to detect a pattern.
Does DiMaggio drop his back shoulder when he swings? If so, then Carter should aim high. Or does he—
Thud. Thud. Thud. Liam’s thoughts were interrupted by a noise coming from the mound. Carter was slamming the ball into his glove, over and over again.
Uh, oh, Liam thought.
Many of his teammates had nervous habits. Charlie yanked on his shirtsleeves. Oliver Ackerman fiddled with his cap. The few who didn’t have braces chomped on gum.
Carter’s habit was to throw the ball into his mitt. The more nervous he was, the harder the ball socked into the glove. Right now, he was hurling the ball so hard Liam’s own hand stung just watching.
Phillip was watching Carter, too. His mouth bent into a half smile.
Liam frowned. Did DiMaggio know Carter was nervous? I bet he does, he realized, because I bet he saw Carter do that when they were at camp!
He tried to signal his cousin that his motion was telegraphing his anxiety. But before he could catch his eye, the umpire cried, “Batter up!”
Phillip took one last swing, strode to the plate, and hefted the bat over his shoulder.
As Liam got into his crouch, he shot a quick glance at DiMaggio’s feet. DiMaggio was in an even stance, feet parallel and toward the front of the box but back from the plate.
Fastball to the outside, Liam thought instantly. He glanced at Coach Harrison, who signaled him to give that pitch. Let’s see how good your reaction time and reach are, DiMaggio. Liam flashed one finger followed by a tap on the inside of his right thigh.
Carter chewed on his lip and nodded. He wound up and delivered. The pitch came in fast, but was so far outside that Liam had to lunge to the right to make the catch. Phillip didn’t even move.
“Ball one!”
The next pitch was another ball. Again, Phillip stood like a statue.
Liam took a moment to adjust his crouch. As he did, he made a patting motion with his bare hand. Calm down that motion was meant to say to Carter. He hoped Carter saw it.
Carter’s third pitch was right on target—if the target had been DiMaggio’s rib cage. Phillip gave a surprised yelp and sprang out of the way.
“Ball three!”
On the sidelines, Coach Harrison had clearly seen enough.
“Time!” he cried. “Liam!”
Liam knew what the coach wanted. He waited until the umpire waved his arms through the air, signaling for play to stop, and then hurried out to the mound.
“The count’s three-and-oh, so he’s going to let the next one go by,” he reminded Carter. “You’ve got to throw one in the strike zone so he doesn’t get a walk.”
Carter thumped the ball into his glove. “But what if he swings?”
Liam put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “So what if he does? What’s the worst that can happen?”
CHAPTER
SEVEN
Carter was about to tell Liam exactly what the worst could be when the umpire ordered them to resume playing.
He’s right about one thing, though, he thought as he set his foot against the rubber. I’ve got to throw a strike.
So when Liam signaled for a fastball right down the middle, that’s what Carter threw.
And that’s what DiMaggio hit. Pow!
Carter shook his head in disgust as he watched Phillip round the bases, grinning from ear to ear and hamming it up for the roaring crowd. That’s the worst that can happen, Liam.
But if Liam was troubled by the home run, he didn’t show it. Instead, he pounded his fist into his mitt and got into his crouch as if giving up a run to the inning’s leadoff hitter was nothing to worry about.
And maybe it isn’t, Carter thought suddenly. We still have four innings at bat. That’s plenty of time for us to chalk up some runs of our own!
With that thought firmly in mind, he squared his shoulders and faced the second batter. One pitch later, that batter was trudging back to the dugout, his pop fly nestled in Miguel’s glove.
One out.
The third hitter hit the first pitch for a bouncing grounder that Carter scooped up and tossed to first.
Two outs.
The fourth man up brought the West players back to the top of their order. He made Carter work much harder. He nicked pitch after pitch, sending three balls foul before finally straightening one out. Luckily, shortstop Miguel Martinez was ready. He fielded the ball cleanly and sent it to first base for the final out.
“Good job, good job,” Coach Harrison called, clapping loudly. He pointed to the team’s third baseman, Leonard Frick. “Leo, you’re up! Oliver, you’re after Leo. Then we’re back to the start of the lineup with Miguel and Jerry. And let’s see if we can give Remy a chance at bat, too!”
After two batters, however, Remy Werner’s chances of getting up didn’t look good. Leo struck out on three pitches and Oliver popped out.
Miguel already had on a batting helmet. Now he chose his favorite bat, took a few swings through the air, and strode to the plate. An oversize boy with an olive complexion, Miguel liked to aim for the fences. Sometimes he reached them. This time, he got a single with a short hopper toward the hot corner. The third baseman ran in, gloved the ball, and made a strong throw to first. Fortunately for the Mid-Atlantic team, that throw wasn’t in time.
Now Jerry Tuckerman, the team’s first baseman, moved to the batter’s box. He dug his front toe in the dirt, hefted the bat over his shoulder, and waggled his hips.
On the mound, Phillip stood still for a few beats. The brim of his cap cast a dark shadow over his face. Looking at him, Carter shivered involuntarily; for a moment, the space beneath the cap appeared to be a faceless mask, completely devoid of features and expression.
Then Phillip shifted and his expression came into clear focus: ferocity mingled with supreme confidence.
He probably practices that look in the mirror, Carter thought, to psyche out batters. He wondered if it worked.
Whether it was his look or his pitching, Phillip confounded Jerry at bat. Jerry was usually good for a bouncing grounder, but this time he pinged three fouls before fanning the fourth pitch.
Three outs, and another scoreless inning for Mid-Atlantic. Mid-Atlantic returned the favor, however, retiring three batters in order. It had taken a lot of work, though—fourteen pitches, by Carter’s count, bringing his total number that game to forty-three.
No problem, he thought.
“Bottom of the fourth, West is up one run to none. A lineup change brings outfielder Craig Ruckel to the plate,” the announcer reported. Moments later, he added, “And Ruckel is out on a caught foul ball. Next up is Liam McGrath. The team’s power hitter, McGrath lined out earlier in the game thanks to a fantastic defensive effort by West’s pitcher, Phillip DiMaggio. Let’s see who wins in the matchup this go-around.”
Carter watched his cousin approach the plate. There was nothing relaxed and easygoing about his walk this time. Everything about Liam screamed one thing: determination.
A thrill shot through Carter. He leaned forward.
“He’s going to cream it!”
Carter hadn’t realized he’d spoken the thought out loud until Leo, sitting next to him, said, “Man, I sure hope so! We need a hit!”
Carter stared at him. Then he leaped to his feet and cried. “So let’s make some noise and let him know we’re behind him one hundred percent!”
The other boys jumped up, too, and began bellowing words of encouragement.
“Go, Liam, go!”
“You’re the man, Liam!”
“He’s scared of you!”
“You can do it!” Carter shouted at the top of his lungs. Then he, his teammates, and everyone else in the stadium held their breath as the pitcher sent the ball screaming toward the plate.
CHAPTER
EIGHT
Yum.
That was the thought that flashed through Liam’s mind when he saw the pitch. It looked like a tasty meatball, served up on a silver platter just for him. He swung with all his might.
Pow!
It wasn’t a home run, just a good solid hit that landed deep in the pocket between left and center field. As he dropped the bat and raced toward first, Liam had a fleeting glimpse of Phillip’s face. He liked what he saw there almost as much as the roars from the people in the stands. The combination spurred him on to second, where he captured the base standing up.
“Here we go, Charlie, send me home!” he cried, pounding his hands together.
But Charlie grounded out.
“Now batting, Ca-aa-arter Jones!” the announcer drawled.
Carter moved to the plate amid loud cheers and whistles. Liam added his own before settling down for whatever came next. It was a good thing he did, because what came next was a thumping line drive off Carter’s bat!
The ball sizzled through the gap between first and second. Liam flew like a bullet to third.
“Go! Go! Go!” the third-base coach screamed.
Liam touched the bag, cornered sharply, and kept running. He heard the crowd gasp.
I’m going to be tagged out! Faster, feet! Faster!
And then suddenly, he was sliding into home plate, skidding past the catcher across the pointed end.
“Safe!” the umpire bellowed.
Mid-Atlantic was on the board at last!
Grinning broadly, Liam jumped up and whirled around to see where Carter was. First base? Second? Maybe even third?
But Carter wasn’t on any base. He was running off the field. Around him, the West players were hustling to their dugout.
Liam blinked in confusion and then hurried to the bench. He caught Daniel Cho’s arm. “What happened?” he demanded.
Daniel shook his head. “Carter stumbled rounding first. He was tagged out at second,” he said.
“But my run!” Liam cried. “Did it count or not?”
“It did, but just barely. You touched the plate only a few seconds before Carter was tagged.”
“Oh, man.” Liam watched his cousin make his way back to the dugout. His head was bowed as if he were too disappointed to look anyone in the eye.
But as he stepped beneath the overhang, Carter looked up. Instead of disappointment, his eyes blazed with pure fury. “He tripped me!” he spat.
Liam’s eyebrow
s shot up into his hair. “He who?”
“Who do you think? DiMaggio! That’s who!” Carter shouted. “He covered first on my hit. When I started for second, he moved his foot right where mine was going to land!”
“You mean he kept you from reaching second? That’s obstruction!” Liam cried. “Come on, we’ve got to let Coach Harrison know!”
The coach looked very grave when they told him what had happened. But he shook his head. “Carter, I’m sorry. Something like that”—he blew out his breath—“he could claim he was moving into position for a catch, or say he didn’t know Carter was trying for a double, or that he just lost his balance and had to move his foot to stay up.” He turned to Carter. “I know it’s hard to accept, but these things happen. What’s important now is that you put it behind you so you can focus on the challenges ahead. Okay?”
Carter nodded. But he didn’t look happy as he headed to the mound.
Liam wanted to explain to the coach that Carter had issues with Phillip DiMaggio, which was why he was so upset. But there wasn’t time. He had to talk to his cousin before the inning began.
He suited up in his catcher’s gear as quickly as he could and started out to the mound. But halfway there, he stopped.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Carter was hurling the ball into his glove over and over. He wasn’t doing it out of nerves this time. The way he was glaring at the West team’s dugout made it clear to Liam that he was channeling his anger.
Atta-boy, Liam thought, grinning as he jogged back to the plate. I only hope you get to use that power against DiMaggio!
CHAPTER
NINE
Carter didn’t think he could be angrier than when his foot twisted on top of Phillip DiMaggio’s. He was wrong. Since that moment, his rage had built until now it coursed through his veins like white lightning, pulsing hotter with every beat of his heart.
Play Ball! Page 3